HurtDiscomfort
by Shade Mimir
Summary: Poor Bob. It's almost as if misery... and bullets are drawn to him. SLASH WadexBob


A/N: So, I'm puttering around the internet all too asleep to do anything productive/too awake to go to sleep. I wander around some LJ comms for a bit, kill a spider (admittedly, totally unrelated to my revelation) and it hits me. "ZOMG, my newest fic totally isn't porn! (yet)"

My account has been all but forgotten. I still get a kick out of writing fics. They help me unwind between the stuff I send off to publishers. (For all my talk, I only _wish _I was big shot writer girl. I'm gettin' there slowly but surely –knock on wood-) But most of my fics, these days, are… well… porn, and this place went all prudish on me years ago.

FFnet still has a place in my heart. I joined when I was a wee little one and learned WAY more writing here than I ever learned at school. Fics kept me interested in writing, and helped my original work grow. Sure, it's totally nerdy, but I couldn't have more love for it.

Oh, and so I can really feel like a geezer – my user id number is 8916. No, seriously, go check (I don't care if you don't care.); it is. What id numbers is FFnet on now? I'm a little scared to check.

But enough of my half-asleep rambling. I'm kickin' this account old school with some Wade/Bob slash. This will be multi-chaptered and under NC-17 for a while, so this might actually get a few updates before I up and vanish again.

Hurt/Discomfort

Entry 1: Why Weasels Can't Grow Up to Be Veterinarians

It hurt worse than that time Allison stabbed him in the hand with the salad fork and called it an "accident". It hurt worse than that time Terry and Howie had lied; the bunny they brought home was not at all friendly. It even hurt worse than those times Wade had shot him … all right, so it hurt about the same as those times Wade had shot him. It was probably because he'd been shot.

Admittedly, Bob didn't _actually _remember getting shot. He remembered agreeing to go on a nondescript mercenary job with Wade. It had taken them to some wildlife preserve – It's a little known statistic that 38% of all wildlife preserves are fronts for evil organizations - This particular preserve was supposedly established to protect the rare and endangered… Bob wasn't sure; some kind of miniature moose. It was sort of majestic. Except, their first night there one had snuck up on Wade, and his boss bludgeoned it to death with a tree limb - and, well, all sorts of animals are considerably less majestic when they're dead.

There weren't many memorable highlights after that – well, except the ambush, but Bob remembered even less of that.

"_Hey, Bob. Is the plural of moose really 'moose'?"_

"_I think so."_

"_Huh. Is the plural of mongoose, 'mongooses'."_

"_I think 'mongeese' is okay too."'_

Famous last words.

One minute they were surrounded and the next he was waking up somewhere dark and wet and unseasonably cold.

After a short introduction to this new, unpleasant environment came the realization that he was without a shirt. The room was lit by the fluorescent green of glow sticks which allowed him to see his left shoulder. It had been bandaged, badly, with coarse material – from boxer shorts and undershirts, he realized when he found a faded Hanes tag in the folds. Not Wade's. There were no goofy patterns or Deadpool logos. Wade had no need to carry first aid supplies and the costumes of both mercenaries and henchmen were usually designed to be easy-to-clean, so bodily fluids just slid right off. Materials like spandex and plastic made lousy tourniquets.

Bob wondered how many henchman Wade had stripped to make bandages. He wondered how sanitary they were then wished he hadn't. "I'm going to die here."

Wade was missing. There was no note, there were no supplies, no sign that he had done anything more than dump an unconscious Bob into a cave, stopped his bleeding, and left. Bob might have hated Wade at that moment had he not been so utterly terrified.

"Mr. Wilson!" he called and immediately clapped a gloved hand over his mouth. What if more people with guns were out there… or moose? He had heard once that moose were incredibly violent animals. Bob had never fought a Shetland show moose. He had no desire to try. "Mr. Wilson?" he whispered through his fingers. "Mr. Wilson, are you here?"

"Mr. Wilson isn't available at the moment. May I take a message?"

Bob looked around, startled. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't see anyone. "Who's there?" he asked, reminding himself that he always made a specific point _not_ to believe in ghosts at times like these. He couldn't handle the thought of men with guns, moose, _and _ghosts; he just couldn't.

"Who do you think?" the voice asked, to which Bob could only shake his head and mouth an apologetic, 'I don't know'. "Down here, you idiot. Down on your left- no, not the rock! To the _right _of the rock. Yes. Here. Hi."

Bob found himself looking down at a small, handheld device that he guessed was some sort of high-tech phone. The monitor display glowed dull green in the light of the glow sticks and on it, a rather scrawny-looking man with dark hair and glasses was standing at a kitchen counter. "Weasel?"

"Yep. Wade went out a few hours ago. I'll be your babysitter for the evening." On the monitor, Weasel yawned over a mug of coffee. "You'd be back by now except, as it turns out, the teleporter was a one way deal. They have some pretty impressive security measures set up over there; adaptive ones. Whatever they're using, it's blocking you from using the same route twice. You'll have to find a way out that doesn't involve teleporting… except, you went with Wade, so I'm guessing there was only ever the one plan."

"What plan?"

"Exactly." Weasel folded his arms over the counter. He yawned again, this time into the sleeve of his robe. "So how are you feeling?"

Bob was confused. He was often confused. It was a defense mechanism. Being confused was much better than panicking. "Like I got shot?"

"Well, that's good, I guess. It's consistent with what Wade said about you getting shot. That's probably not a bad sign."

"Probably?"

Weasel shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. "Well, the wound isn't fatal-"

That was no surprise. Bob had been shot plenty of times. Heck, he'd been voted Most Flammable in Hydra basic training – wait, that had nothing to do with this. Maybe he'd lost more blood than he thought. "Well, that's good," he said, regarding the wound being non-fatal; not 'Well, that's good" in regard to blood loss or his perpetuated lack of flame retardancy.

"-unless it becomes infected."

"Oh."

"But I discussed that with Wade-"

"Oh, well in that case-"

"- and he left you in a cave."

"And?"

"And I'd say that being somewhere damp and unsanitary is a little counterproductive to your 'non-fatal' wound goal." Weasel drained his coffee and set the mug aside. He was being very blasé about a situation that was quickly turning Bob's initial confusion into panic.

Bob closed his eyes and took a deep breath to clear his head. There was no need to panic. "I am Switzerland… I am Switzerland." Weasel interrupted with a puzzled, "What?" but Bob ignored him. He needed to think. What did the Hydra Handbook say about getting shot? "I am Switzerland…" Chapter 18, Page 342

_Don't get shot._

"I don't want to die!" Bob wailed, making a move for the handheld that his shoulder disagreed with. He fell to the cave floor with a miserable groan; hand under his awkwardly positioned shoulder, cheek separated from the cold floor only by the Hydra mask as he watched Weasel roll his eyes on-screen. "You have to- I mean what if you call-"

"Agency X is willing to help out." Weasel frowned down at his wristwatch while he talked. Hayden said he could call in some favors, but there's no fool proof way to get in _and _out that doesn't involve busting through the front gates – and that'll require some major artillery."

"So… a few days." Bob gripped his injured shoulder and rolled onto his back. His panic had given way to extreme pessimism. "I'll be dead by then."

"Don't say that," Weasel admonished, accompanied by what sounded like a fridge door opening. Bob wasn't watching the screen anymore. "In a few days, you'll have developed sepsis. Hayden can't have anyone there for, at least, a week. By _then _you'll be dead."

The panic was coming back a little. Bob whimpered and threw his good arm over his eyes. "This isn't happening."

"But, hey, that's _if _you get an infection, right?" Weasel asked, supplying just the sort of unlikely, desperate hope that Bob could latch onto. He uncovered his eyes slightly, glancing over as Weasel continued. "It's not like I'm a doctor or anything. The infection might not get that bad. And, hey, for all I know, Wade's on his way back right now. He'll patch you right up. No infection."

"You really think Mr. Wilson will be back soon?"

"How would I know?" Weasel paused, regarding Bob over a carton of Chinese take-out for a few moments. "Have you ever seen the English Patient?"

"No. Why? Does he get better?"

"That's not exactly the character I was- Yeah, sure Bob, the english patient gets better."


End file.
